


Little Ghost

by Thelonelycoast



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Attempted Sexual Assault, Awkward Boners, Awkward Sexual Situations, Drama, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Ghost Harry, Innocent Harry, Love, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Male Slash, Nerdy Louis, Romance, Smut, Soulmates, Zayn Malik & Louis Tomlinson Friendship, also major character death because harry is a ghost? so obviously he died to become that way, ghost boners, i put underage but harry is 16 which is legal in the uk so just use caution?, louis is a geeky lit major who wears glasses, secret genius niall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 16:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7764730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thelonelycoast/pseuds/Thelonelycoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is a ghost.  Louis is his unfinished business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this since October of 2014 and this was meant to be a short story that's gotten out of control, so it will be chaptered. I have about half of it written so far and the more encouragement I get, the more I will work on it. Comments and kudos are so, so appreciated and I will do my best to respond to all of them. :)
> 
> Visit me on tumblr? [peachbottomprince](http://peachbottomprince.tumblr.com/)

#  **Little Ghost - Chapter 1**

 

**_Soundtrack: Location – Freelance Whales_ **

_I am starting to sense your location.  You are somewhere in the attic, looking something close to tragic… knitting T-shirts and your mattress.  I'm floating up the stairwell, with my toes grazing the cedar, thinking softly what a tinder box we live in and what a flammable heart I've been given…_

###  **[After]**

The first time it happened, Louis was bleary from lack of sleep.  It was 3 AM and he’d been up for hours working on a paper for his Queer Lit class that was due the next morning.  It counted as forty percent of his grade and as usual, he’d procrastinated until the last possible minute.  His desk was a wasteland of crumpled up paper balls and teeth-marked pencils and four empty mugs with dried Yorkshire teabags cemented to their bottoms.

Every time Louis stretched to pop the kinks from his back, his sharp elbows managed to knock something else off the desk – a highlighter or the framed photo of him and his mum and five baby sisters and brother from Christmas last or the little gecko-shaped souvenir ashtray Zayn got him in Ibiza (even though he doesn’t smoke).  Normally, Louis thrived on a little chaos – worked well under the pressure of impending deadlines and against the encroaching tide of desk clutter – but that morning he was fading fast.  He was nearly done – maybe another page or two to wrap up his conclusion – but at his current level of exhausted, it seemed an insurmountable task.

Each syrupy blink of his eyes lasted a little longer than the last and he was contemplating calling it quits, when abruptly, one of his pencils flew off the desk.  Not fell.   _Flew_.

“Oops.  Sorry,” said a tiny, disembodied voice from somewhere over his shoulder.

Louis lurched back from his desk, toppling his chair and somehow managing to whack the back of his head on the bookshelf on the way down.  

“Fuck,” he cussed, rubbing his aching skull.   _Whose bloody idea was it to put a bookshelf there anyhow?  Oh right, his._

Louis was well awake then, heart pounding in his chest, adrenaline fizzing through his veins like fizzy drink.  His eyes did a perfunctory sweep of the room.  There was a forlorn-looking pile laundry in one corner that hadn’t quite made it to the basket.  His bed was rumpled and unmade from the twenty-minute power nap he’d taken two hours prior.  And of course, the books – so _many_ books – jammed into the bookshelf two deep, stacked into precarious towers beside his bed and piled along the window ledge.

The bright white square of his laptop screen illuminated the usual disarray of a uni student.  Everything else in the room was shadowy and dark, indistinct.  Louis took off his glasses to rub at his eyes and put them back on.  He was alone.  But he had _heard_ someone.  He hadn’t just imagined it, had he?

“Hello?” he ventured, feeling a bit stupid talking to thin air.   _Not that feeling stupid had ever stopped him before_.  There were several beats of silence and a then, a few more. No one answered.  Because there was no one there.

But inexplicably, there was Louis’ pencil – lying halfway across the room – like the murder weapon in a game of Clue.   _Mr. Tomlinson in the bedroom with a pencil._

Louis’ body was wracked with a sudden chill and he gathered his jumper tighter around his throat.  He was just tired.  He’d not slept in thirty-six hours.  He had probably hallucinated the whole thing.

 _Still_ , to be safe, he crawled into Zayn’s bed that night, too spooked to sleep alone.

 

**_Soundtrack: Gravel to Tempo – Hayley Kiyoko_ **

_I don't feel adequate. Thinking I'm a monster in disguise. We've gone down every list. Stuck, but I have got to begin to resist. Caught up with the fact that life will be dark, but can we handle being kids? I'll do this my way. Don't matter if I break. I gotta be on my own. Lost in this feeling, don't never need a reason. I gotta be on my own._

###  **[Before]**

On the last day of his life, Harry spent an inordinate amount of time standing in front of his closet mirror, appraising his looks.  He wasn’t _bad_ looking. Objectively _,_ Harry could admit that he had nice teeth and above-average eyes and that other people seemed to appreciate his dimples and his curly hair.  But his body was just… _blech_.  He was at that awkward in-between stage where his torso hadn’t yet adjusted to the length of his limbs, leaving him looking more like a gangly, bumbling golden retriever puppy than the boys in his sister’s magazines. He’d come to the conclusion – to his lasting chagrin and from more than one Seventeen quiz – that he was more little brother material than boyfriend material.

Harry let out a frustrated whine, tugging off the fifth jumper he’d tried on in a row, replacing it with his ratty purple hoodie.  It didn’t matter _what_ he put on his body.  Nobody would want him.  Nobody would ever want to kiss him.  He collapsed onto his bed and pulled his hood over his head, with a heavy sigh of self-defeat.

He laid there for an indeterminate amount of time, silently willing his body to just get puberty the hell over with.  His bitten-down nail came up to his face to idly itch his cheek where he could feel the angry swell of another spot coming on.  It felt like just another sign he should stay home in his pajamas and watch Xfactor and talk his sister into painting his nails.

He sat up when something smacked him hard in the stomach.  “Oof.”  A Nerf football rolled off the bed onto the floor.  Harry’s older brother was standing in the doorway, a smirk tugging up one corner of his mouth.   _Dick_.

“Ready Hazza?”

“I’m not going,” Harry pouted, crossing his arms self-consciously.  “I look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.”

Harry’s brother snorted and rolled his eyes.  “Don’t be such a drama queen, H.”  He walked over to the dresser, rifling through Harry’s drawers with easy familiarity.

Harry was exceedingly glad he had moved _that_ magazine to under his mattress.  He could never get any damn privacy in this house.  He’d spent enough time in the loo that year that his older sister bought him a bottle of lotion and a box of tissues for his birthday so he would stop cutting into her shower time.  It was humiliating.  He couldn’t wait til the twins went back to Uni on Monday.

He’d begged his mum to stay home alone when she had to leave on a business trip, but she’d insisted his siblings come home from Uni to babysit him.  Harry was too old for a babysitter.  Besides which, he was probably the most responsible of the three of them.  It was just...he’d always been a little too naïve, too trusting.  His sister had nearly yanked his arm out of the socket when he was six years old and tried to follow a man into a van to look at his puppies.  And his brother had been there to pick up the pieces when Harry had fallen hard for the most unavailable, straight jock on campus.

“You know,” Harry’s brother said conversationally, as he upended Harry’s drawer onto the carpet.  “I’ve read about these guys on the Internet – that are a little bit chunky– they call themselves cubs.  Although, you’re really not that hairy, so maybe you’re more of an otter or a –”

Harry covered his face, ears burning red.  “Please don’t finish that thought.”

His brother shrugged, grinning brightly.  “I’m just saying.  There’s someone for everyone.  You say ‘Pillsbury dough boy’ and someone else says, ‘adorable plump jailbait’.”

“I hate you,” Harry groaned, pulling a pillow down over his face, although he found himself biting back a smile.   _Adorable plump jailbait_ wasn’t the worst thing he could be.  He didn’t _regret_ coming out, but sometimes he wished his family were a bit less… _supportive_.

His older brother and sister, who had tortured him with a relish bordering on sadism from an early age, were actually being _nice_ to him.  It was creepy.  His sister had offered to take him practice driving with his permit and his brother had let him have the last slice of pizza at dinner the night before.  And his mum was the worst of all.  She’d bought him a jumbo box of condoms and made him watch a video on gay safe sex that had left him squirming in his seat.  Even if he _did_ find it really informative, it wasn’t the type of thing you wanted to watch with your _mum_.

Besides, Harry wasn’t ready for all that yet…he would be happy just to kiss a boy.  He _really_ wanted to kiss a boy.  Preferably before he died.  (He just didn’t realize how soon that would be.)

“Here, wear this,” his brother tossed a denim button up and a grey cardigan at him.  “With the least baggy pair of black jeans you own.”

“Turn around,” Harry instructed.

“I’ve seen your four teats before, unless you’ve sprouted more since I last saw you in a swimming costume?” his brother teased, but he turned around anyway, facing the door.  As if Harry weren’t enough of a freak already, God had to grace him with two extra nipples.  Harry quickly changed out of his current clothes, hating to be naked even for a second.  His body looked like a pear with four toothpicks sticking out of it, he thought despairingly, when he caught a brief glimpse of himself in the mirror.

“Okay.  You can turn around now.”  His brother turned, eyes raking over Harry.

I…do I look…okay?” Harry asked shyly.

“Perfect.  Now let’s go before I change my mind about bringing my underage kid brother to a club.”

Harry hesitated in front of the mirror, tugging self-consciously at his shirt hem.  He looked… _okay_ .  For _him_ .  “Are you sure I – ?  Do I look…you know… _gay_ enough?” he fretted.

He wasn’t sure if there was some type of signal he should be putting out with his outfit.  In a last ditch effort, Harry grabbed his tangle of bracelets from the top of his nightstand, slipping on the rainbow one his sister had made him out of plastic beads from one of her childhood jewelry-making kits.  It was cheap looking and a little juvenile, but it made him feel brave and protected somehow, like he was wearing a magic talisman.  Like nothing could hurt him.  (How wrong he was about that.)

“I could draw a dick on your face with Sharpie if you think it would help,” his brother suggested, uncapping a marker from Harry’s desk.

Harry wouldn’t put it past his brother to do just that.  Harry pushed past him, making a break for the stairs.

 

**_Soundtrack: Is There a Ghost – Band of Horses_ **

_I could sleep…When I lived alone.  Is there a ghost in my house?_

###  **[After]**

In the daytime, it all seemed a bit silly, the sort of mental trick conjured up by the over-tired and under-caffeinated.  Louis slunk out of Zayn’s room in the morning like he was fleeing small talk with a one-night-stand, feeling ashamed and embarrassed.  He was a grown man (or at least his birth certificate seemed to indicate so).  Even if there _had_ been a ghost – which there _hadn’t_ – it had hardly been scary.  It was possibly the most polite, mild-mannered ghost in existence.  A clumsy, bumbling boob of a ghost who was a threat to what exactly – _pencils_?

It wasn’t as if the ghost had tried to scare or hurt him.  In fact, the more Louis thought about it, the more he felt sort of hopelessly endeared by the fumbling ghost.  In idle moments of boredom, he found himself wishing the ghost would appear again – both to prove that he wasn’t crazy the first time and to satisfy his growing curiosity.

Louis got his wish three days later.

Niall and Zayn were at class and he was alone in the house, reading _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ for his Gothic Lit course.  He’d skipped out on his 8 AM class – he had no idea what he’d been thinking signing up for a class that started before ten.  Luckily, Zayn had had the same bad idea and actually regularly attended, so Louis could just copy his notes later.  That was Louis’ only school for the whole day, so he hadn’t bothered to shower or get changed out of his pajamas.  It was raining – little ghostly tap taps at his window-glass, the back garden a tumultuous sea of grey-white clouds – but Louis was warm and cozy in his pile of blankets.

He was so lost in his book it took him a few minutes to realize that the sound pushing at the back of his consciousness wasn’t the sound of the wind whistling in the eaves, but the teakettle howling away downstairs.

“Zayn?  Niall?” Louis bellowed, not wanting to leave his comfortable nest.  He hadn’t heard his housemates come in – but he’d been known to get lost in reading – and besides, they must be home because who _else_ was there?

With a huff, Louis slammed his book down on its spine and padded out into the hallway in his socked feet.  He was wearing a ridiculously oversized lavender jumper that he’d picked up in a charity shop and not much else.  The hem fell to his mid-thigh and the sleeves were balled over his fists in drooping sweater paws.  His bare thighs prickled with goose bumps out in the drafty corridor.  He was praying to God he wasn’t about to run into one of Niall’s girlfriends, pottering about in the kitchen half-dressed.  Morning-after conversations with someone else’s morning-after were well… _awkward_ to say the least.  Louis had had enough of them since moving in to know.  Niall was something of a lothario on campus, but because he was so easygoing and unassuming, he hadn’t developed much of a reputation over the years.

Louis peered into Niall’s room first, itching for a row after being forced out of bed against his will.  Niall’s room was a warzone of empty pizza boxes and crisp packets, his desk and nightstand crowded with about fifty empty or near-empty beer bottles and energy drinks.  On the floor, amidst dirty gym socks and pants that hadn’t quite made it to the hamper, there were springs and bits of coil and wire and what looked like a post-mortem of the robot Niall had turned in for his Electrical Engineering class last month.  Niall was a bloody genius - duel majoring in Political Science and Engineering - but it was easy to be fooled into thinking he was another dumb jock. Niall loved nothing more than barbecuing and watching a good sporting match, had amassed a tremendous collection of snapbacks over the years, subscribed to Golf Quarterly and daily drank his weight in beer.

It smelled like a distillery in his room – heady and thick - and Louis grimaced, wrinkling his nose in distaste, before closing the door again.  Louis wasn’t the tidiest person alive so he probably had no room to judge – but at least his mess tended to be mostly papers and books – not rotting food, blanketed with a haze of yeasty beer.  It was a small wonder to Louis that straight boys ever managed to get laid the way they carried on.

Zayn’s room, just one door down, felt like a sanctuary by comparison, as close to coming home as Louis’ childhood bedroom in Doncaster.  It had a cozy, but scavenged feel – with its mismatched, thrifted furniture and walls papered in sketches.  There were plenty of drawings of Louis – rough, dashed profiles of him reading books or glancing out the window and even some nude studies he’d agreed to under the influence of too much weed or alcohol.  There was something to catch your eye everyone you looked – sparkling geodes and gemstones, small animal skulls and tiny potted succulents, piles of well-thumbed art books, jars of muddy water with soaking paintbrushes – all cobbled together like a giant raven’s nest.

There was no trace of Zayn and his leather jacket was missing from its hook, a telltale sign he wasn’t home.  (He never went anywhere without that bloody thing – it was starting to unravel at the seams).  The room smelled of clementines, cigarettes and turpentine, overlaid with sharp musk of Zayn’s cologne.  The scent was as familiar to Louis as breathing.  He briefly contemplated crawling into Zayn’s bed – it was so much softer than his own – but then the persistent screech of the kettle reminded him why he’d gotten out of bed in the first place.

Louis grew more and more agitated as he stomped down into the kitchen.  The kettle’s copper bottom was practically smoking by the time he got to it.  Louis stoked his anger, relishing the burn, prepared to tear into his housemates the moment he saw them for leaving boiling water on the stove.   _What if he hadn’t been home?  They’d have burned the damn house down._  

He’d just flicked off the burner when he heard a small, wavering voice behind him.  “You should really eat something.”  

“Thanks mum,” he snapped reflexively, voice thick with sarcasm.  And then Louis froze, the hair prickling up on the back of his neck.  Niall and Zayn weren’t home.   _Niall and Zayn weren’t home._  No one was home but Louis and –

Louis whirled around, ready to catch the ghost red-handed, but as with the last time, there was no one there.  Louis trembled – as much as he’d been anticipating (even _hoping_ for) another appearance – there was no way of knowing when or where the ghost would show up – and it was the unpredictability of the thing that got to him.

“Hello?”   _Silence_ .  “Hello?  I’m Louis.  What’s your name?” he tried again, trying for friendly, but feeling like a complete knob.  He was talking to an empty kitchen – in a pair of skimpy pants and knee-high socks and a giant, ridiculous jumper that kept sliding off his shoulders.  He wondered if the ghost was judging him.  He wondered if the ghost was _cute_ .  Oh God, that would be just his luck.  Although, could ghosts even _be_ cute, not having a corporeal form and all?

Predictably, the kitchen didn’t answer back.  “You’re the worst ghost I’ve ever met,” Louis pouted.

He chanced a glance at the clock on the microwave and realized the ghost was right about one thing – he _should_ eat – it was already half past four and he hadn’t had anything all day.  It was a bad habit of his when he got particularly engrossed in a book.  Louis made himself a cup of tea (why let the hot water go to waste?) and poured a bowl of cereal – which was about the extent of his culinary reach – and sat down at the counter, aggressively munching his cereal.

He felt unreasonably irritated – the ghost always showed up when he least expected it and always left him feeling like a cock.  It was like trying to have a conversation with the wind – frustrating and ultimately unsatisfying.  But for some odd reason, Louis wanted more.  The ghost left him feeling like there was something unresolved, something that needed doing or saying, if only the ghost would stick around long enough to hear it.

Somewhere between his first and last spoon of cereal, Louis began to feel like he was losing touch with his tenuous grasp on reality.  Maybe it was the chilly weather or the creaky old house in the suburbs, maybe it was the moody book he’d been reading or maybe he’d been spending too much time alone lately.  Maybe it was a combination of all those things.  Louis had always had an overactive imagination, but he’d never imagined a whole _person_ before.  (Well, barring imaginary friends – but he’d been _five_ – cut him some slack.)

_There’s no such thing as ghosts._

_There’s no such thing as ghosts._

Maybe if Louis thought it enough, it would start to feel true _._

Louis wriggled into a pair of skinny jeans and slipped on his wellies and the house’s shared raincoat and set out for a walk to clear his head.  Manchester was gray and dreary this time of year and just the right amount of cold to clear his thoughts and push away his feelings of unease.  Louis patted a few strangers’ dogs and bought himself a cup of tea from his favorite neighborhood coffee shop.  He flirted with the cute barista with the lip piercing and got a phone number for his efforts.  He wrote a haiku on a tea-stained napkin.  He made stupid faces at a baby behind its mother’s back.  By the time he set off for home, he felt almost normal again.

Upon his return, he took a long indulgent shower and by the time he was done, he could hear the others knocking about downstairs.  He was relieved to have them home, to have that connection to the world of the living again.  Maybe he should look into getting a pet.  He needed to stop living inside his own head so much.

Louis was all ready to put the afternoon’s strange events behind him and redouble his efforts to be a bit more social, maybe go to one of those pub trivia nights Niall’d been begging him to come to ever since he’d moved in.  But then, Louis went to clear the fog off the bathroom mirror so he could shave and realized there was a name scrawled in the steam.

 _HARRY_.

The ghost had terrible handwriting – like a child’s honestly – and _Oh God, what if the ghost was a child_?  The thought was sadder than any other scenario Louis had entertained thus far.  The idea of some sad, needy eight-year-old ghost vying for his affection and attention was the most heartbreaking thing ever.

“Nice to meet you Harry,” Louis said to his own reflection, trying for his gentlest smile.  What if the ghost was just young and shy and that was why he kept disappearing?  What if he was just as scared of Louis as Louis had initially been of him?

 

**_Soundtrack: Line of Fire – Junip_ **

_What would you do if it all came back to you?  Each crest of each wave, bright as lightning. What would you say if you had to leave today? Leave everything behind, even though for once, you're shining.  Standing on higher ground when you hear the sounds, you realize it’s just the wind and you notice it matters who and what you let under your skin. If put to the test, would you step back from the line of fire?_

###  **[Before]**

The evening had gotten off to a bad start.  Harry’s older sister had taken the car to stay over at a friend’s house for the night, leaving him and his brother to make due with public transportation.  Usually the trains were punctual, if a bit crowded.  But that night, a man had a heart attack on one of the cars a station before their stop and their train was delayed indefinitely while emergency responders rushed to the scene.

But Harry didn’t know all that then.  All he knew was the waiting and the feeling like he was about to crawl out of his skin.  They waited an hour among increasingly agitated fellow commuters before they scrabbled together some cash for a cab, dashing out of the tube into the rain-soaked streets of Manchester.

That was the first thing that went wrong.

The second was that the fake ID Harry’s brother had secured him failed to get him past the bouncer.  Even though the drinking age was sixteen, the club was 18+.  Harry had to stand in the rainy alley by the dumpster, trying to look inconspicuous while he waited for his brother to come prop open the side door for him.  By the time Harry got in, his artfully arranged curls were a frizzy mess and his jumper was wet and misshapen, the neck all stretched out.

Harry had a sulk at a bar, prodding at the melting ice-cubes in his glass with his tiny red straw and watching other, braver people dance on the dance-floor.  His brother had already managed to charm one of the few straight girls in the bar and they were doing an exaggerated bump and grind on the dance floor that made Harry’s face burn.  He shouldn’t have come.

“What are you drinking?” a voice asked from over his shoulder.

Harry’s head snapped back, meeting the cool blue gaze of what was presumably the fittest bloke in the place.  “Uh, Shirley Temple?” Harry swallowed, as the boy slipped into the vacated seat next to him.

The boy raised a cool, assessing eyebrow at Harry.  “Virgin?”

“I – I don’t – think that’s any of your business,” Harry stammered, face flushing with embarrassed heat.

The guy laughed gently, gesturing at Harry’s empty glass.  “Your drink, I meant, but good to know.”  Harry ducked his face forward so his curls would shield the red rapidly flooding his face.

“Ye-yeah.”

The boy flagged the bartender, with the ease of someone who was used to parting crowds.  Despite the mass of impatient bar patrons waiting with notes in their hands to place their orders, the bartender made a beeline for the boy.

“What’ll it be sweetheart?” the bartender flirted, taking the 50 pound note from the boy’s outstretched fingers like he was taking his phone number.

“A gin and tonic for me and another virgin Shirley Temple for my mate here.  Extra cherries cause he’s extra sweet.”  Harry didn’t miss the brief flash of disgust on the bartender’s face – like he’d smelled something bad – before his face resumed its friendly mask.

“Sure thing, doll,” he winked, ignoring Harry entirely.

Harry scrabbled for his wallet, pulling out two crumpled notes that weren’t enough to even cover one of the cherries in his drink.  Cocktails were ridiculously expensive here and he hadn’t budgeted for the cab they took to the club.

The boy put a hand over Harry’s, pushing the money back towards him. “It’s on me, love.”  Harry stammered a thank you, fumbling his wallet back into his pocket.

The boy slid Harry’s drink towards him when it arrived, without sparing a glance for the eager bartender, whose face fell like he’d been slapped.  The boy never once took his eyes off Harry as he lifted his own drink.  “Cheers.”

Their glasses clinked together, somehow overloud even with the thumping bass line of the music vibrating in the background. Harry’s world had narrowed to the boy – like a camera focusing on the subject – everything in the background fading away.  He’d had crushes before – never mutual – but there had never been this fizzing anticipation with unrequited crushes.  The thought that something could happen, that something _was_ happening was intoxicating.

The boy took a cheeky sip from his straw in a way that attractively narrowed his cheekbones and made Harry’s stomach quiver with the thought of what his mouth would look like wrapped around… _other things_.  “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Oh, do you come here often?” Harry asked and then winced, realizing how much it sounded like a pickup line.  The boy laughed though, charmed by Harry’s ineptitude, presumably.

“Not really, but would’ve remembered a face as pretty as yours,” the boy teased, making Harry blush.

The boy slid two fingers between Harry’s rainbow bracelet and his skin, plucking at the beads and stroking his fingers over the faint blue constellations of veins in Harry’s wrist.  It was hard to focus on anything but the tiny electrifying points of contact between them, the steady focus of the boy’s blue eyes and the shape of his mouth, glistening with alcohol in the dim light.  Even though he hadn’t had a real drink all night, Harry felt dizzy.

“I’m a pretty good read on people,” the boy said, turning Harry’s hand over to examine the lines in his palm.  “Let’s see,” he said, running his index finger over the crease closest to Harry’s fingers.  Harry prayed his hand wasn’t sweating too much.  “This here’s your heart-line –” His finger skipped lower, the pressure tantalizingly light, “your head-line and your life-line.  You can learn a lot about a person from palmistry.”

Harry moved his coat onto his lap to hide the massive boner in his pants and asked, more bravely than he felt.  “Oh yeah?  What does my palm say about me?”

“Hm…You just turned sixteen.  This is your first time at a gay bar.  You spent hours agonizing over what to wear tonight, even though you’d probably look gorgeous in a paper bag.  You were terrified no one would give you a second glance, because for some stupid reason, you have no idea how beautiful you really are.”  The boy’s fingers stopped their movement, just resting lightly, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.  “Am I getting close?”

Harry stared at him, his mouth hanging open.  “How did _you –_?”

The boy snorted.  “As much as I’d love to claim credit, I saw the bouncer turn you away outside – thus underage – and I wore a rainbow bracelet too when I was a baby queer, total rookie move.”

Harry snatched his hand away, face burning with hurt.  “I don’t have to see your hand to know you’re a dick,” he snapped.

The boy let out a startled laugh, taken aback by the venom in Harry’s voice.  “Shit, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean – ” he self-consciously straightened his fringe.  “I always muck these things up, especially with a guy as fit as you are.  I wasn’t having you on, I swear.  And I meant it when I said you were beautiful.  Forgive a poor bloke for wanting an excuse to hold your hand?” he asked earnestly.

“I guess you could buy me another drink,” Harry said primly, sipping down the watery dregs of his second Shirley Temple and popping a cherry in his mouth.  “If you’re really so contrite…”

The boy pushed a curl out of Harry’s face.  “Darling, I’d buy you the moon and the stars if I could.  One drink’s the least I could do.”

Harry laughed.  “You’re right.  You are terrible at this.  Dial it back, Romeo.”

The boy laughed.  “I like you.  What’s your name?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is a ghost. Louis is his unfinished business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing this since October of 2014 and this was meant to be a short story that's gotten out of control, so it will be chaptered. I have about half of it written so far and the more encouragement I get, the more I will work on it. Comments and kudos are so, so appreciated and I will do my best to respond to all of them. :)
> 
> Visit me on tumblr? [peachbottomprince](http://peachbottomprince.tumblr.com/)

#  **Little Ghost - Chapter 2**

 

**_Soundtrack: Heartlines – Broods_ **

_Have you been let down by the ones before? Do you leave too soon to know? Never fell in love, cause I just cut loose, but not when it comes to you...We could fool the datelines.  We could jump the state lines. I don't wanna always play nice, but I wanna feel your heartlines.  I'll pick you up at midnight.  We'll run to beat the sunlight.  We only get the one life and I wanna feel your heartlines. I wanna feel your heart..._

###  **[After]**

A few nights later, Louis was squinting to make out the words in his book as the sun set over the back garden.  It had grown darker since he first sat down to read and he knew he should turn on the light – could practically hear his mum’s voice in his head telling him not to strain his eyes – but he couldn’t be arsed to get up.  He was just turning the page when unexpectedly the overhead light flipped on with an audible click.

“Thanks Harry,” Louis replied automatically, without looking up from his book.

“Welcome,” a soft voice replied.  Truly the most polite ghost ever.  And now that Louis has heard him again, the ghost didn’t sound like a child.  He sounded like a boy, a bit like Louis even.  Louis wished he could see him.  Their relationship, like their conversations, was awfully one sided.

Louis set his book down, sitting up against the headboard and trying to mask the desperation in his voice.  “Please don’t go.  You always go.”

“I’m sorry,” the voice said and then there was just silence, silence that followed Louis all the way into his dreams.

***

“This is gonna sound crazy, but…I think this house might be haunted,” Louis said to Niall the next morning, over breakfast.  It felt weird to say it aloud – to finally acknowledge the elephant in the room after a week of keeping it to himself – but also sort of like a relief?  Louis had never been good at keeping secrets _or_ asking for help.

Louis watched the blond boy’s face carefully to gauge his reaction, but Niall’s expression barely faltered.  He was reading sports scores on his phone and blindly shoveling cereal into his mouth with his head bent low to the bowl.  He looked vaguely like a dog scarfing kibble, simultaneously disgusting and endearing in the way only Niall could be.

“Oh Harry, you mean?” Niall asked through a mouthful of food, as casual as could be.  “He’s harmless.”

Louis’ spoon dropped with a clatter into his bowl.  “You _knew_?  You knew we had a ghost and didn’t think to mention it?”

“Would you have moved in if I had?” Niall asked skeptically, raising one eyebrow.

Louis grimaced.  He would have thought Niall was crazy, or worse.  Louis knew Zayn about as well as anyone could know anyone, but he’d been a bit wary of moving in with Niall – only because Niall seemed so much like all the straight boys that had bullied him in secondary school.  Louis had quickly discovered that wasn’t the case at all with Niall.  And the discovery that Niall had two mums had soothed away any unease Louis might have originally felt.

Niall gave a half-shouldered shrug.  “Anyway, I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.  Haven’t seen much of him lately.  Wondered where he’d gone off too.  Makes sense it’s you then.”

“It…makes… _sense_ ?” Louis asked slowly, feeling on the verge of an aneurism. _What exactly made sense about a ghost living in their house?_

“Yeah.  First it was me and then Zayn, so—”

Louis didn’t know why, but his skin prickled at the thought of the others with Harry.  All this time he had thought he was special – _chosen_ somehow – but it was just Harry making his ghostly rounds.  Like a fickle cat, getting his pets in where he could.  Louis didn’t like the idea of being Harry’s sloppy seconds or thirds.  Harry was _Louis’_ ghost.

But then Louis realized how selfish that was – how lonely it must have been all these years for Harry.  The house had been vacant a year before Zayn and Niall moved in and who knows how long Harry was alone before that.  He could have died forty years ago for all Louis knew.  Louis almost would have almost preferred it that way - an old timey ghost would have been quaint and quirky.  But the thought of Harry being alive just a few years ago – that Louis could have passed by him on a street – both never knowing what fate awaited him – made Louis unbearably sad.

Louis had moved into the house a month ago.  Zayn and Niall were there a whole year before Zayn managed to convince Louis to move in.  Louis originally begged off, citing that his commute would be significantly longer and he would be further removed from any good parties happening in the city.  But then, in his final year of uni, Louis was saddled with a nightmare flat mate (who’d seemed perfectly reasonable in his Craigslist ad) and when Zayn once again brought up the spare bedroom in a quiet suburb, it had seemed ideal.  The perfect place to get work done without Screamo music pounding in his skull or passive-aggressive notes taped all over the containers in the fridge.

And it _was_ perfect – a perfect family home – with two, no _three_ perfect roommates.  One of whom just happened to be dead.

 

**_Soundtrack: Scar – Foxes_ **

_You cut me deep, it hurt to feel.  It's taking time, but wounds, they heal.  Now you're just a scar, a story I tell. Such an ugly mark, but I wear it so well. Like, oh well, oh well...There used to be a time I couldn’t sleep at night. No, I couldn't dry my eyes. Now I'm done, crying. There used to be a time, you took all my light, like nothing was left to find. Now my lights are blinding. You cut me deep, it hurt to feel. It's taking time, but wounds, they heal._

###  **[Before]**

They danced until the back of Harry’s shirt was soaked with sweat and his curls were pasted to his neck.  They danced until Harry was pretty sure he was going to cum his pants if the boy kept grinding his arse back against him like that.  And just when it became unbearable – too hot, too close, too _much_ – they slid outside to share a cigarette, sweat-drenched bodies shivering in the cold alleyway behind the club.  Harry didn’t even smoke, but he craved the intimacy, the brush of their fingers as they passed the fag between them, the taste of the boy’s lips lingering on the filter.  It felt like a kiss without a kissing, a portent of things to come.

When they got back inside, there was no room on the couch, so when the boy patted his knee, Harry sat in his lap.  The boy put his arms around Harry’s middle and wedged his pointed chin into the crook between Harry’s shoulder and neck, settling in and around him like he belonged there.

“Are you drunk?” Harry whispered, letting his head loll back to rest on the boy’s shoulder.

“Just buzzed,” the boy said, slipping a finger under Harry’s t-shirt to lightly trace Harry’s hipbone.  It made Harry’s whole body shiver.

“I don’t want you to do this if you’re just like – ” Harry waved a hand to indicate tipsy.  Harry recalled some not-nice things he’d heard boys at his college say about beer goggles, about how enough alcohol could make anyone attractive.  He didn’t want the boy treating him nicely just because he was drunk and then slagging him off to his mates the next day.  He wasn’t stupid enough to think they were going to become boyfriends after tonight, but a sober snog would be nice.

“I’ve only had four drinks and I don’t need anymore cause I’m drunk off the smell of you –” the boy said lowly, breathing in Harry’s neck deeply.

Harry squirmed, thinking of the drying sweat on his skin.  “Do I smell.. _gross_?”

“No, you smell perfect,” the boy grinned, canines glinting in the neon light from the bar signs.

Harry wasn’t sure when it had happened - he’d initially been so disarmed by the boy’s good looks and sweet talk - but every once in awhile, a fake smile would slither across the boy’s face him and Harry would get a cold, creeping feeling along his skin.  The club was too loud, too hot and he’d long ago lost sight of his older brother, of anyone he knew really. 

Harry wanted to go home.  He’d gone to a grown-up club and flirted with a boy and that was enough out of his comfort zone for one night.  So he didn’t get kissed.  There would be plenty more nights and plenty more boys in his future.  Maybe his mum was right and there was no rush, although being a sixteen year old virgin sometimes felt like the worst sort of purgatory.

Harry was jarred out of his thoughts when he felt the boy’s hands slip into his pants. There had been no preamble, one second they’d been on his waist and the next they were gripping his shaft.  “What are you doing?”

“Helping you out.  You’ve been hard all night, sweetheart.  Thought you might need some relief.”

“I’m sorry.  I’ve never done anything before-”

“Find that hard to believe the way you were grinding against me on the dance floor,” the boy chuckled knowingly into Harry’s neck. 

“Please stop,” Harry said firmly as he could manage, although his voice had gone strangely high and cracked on the words.  The boy took his hands out of Harry’s pants and Harry stumbled to his feet, straightening his jeans.

“I’m sorry - I’m not.  I don’t want my first time to be like this - in a gross club with some drunk guy I just met...”

“I’m sorry.  Shit,” the boy raked his hands back through his hair.  “Forgive me.  We don’t have to do anything.  We can just talk, okay?  Let me get us another drink and you just relax, sweetheart.” 

Initially, Harry had found the pet names sweet, but now he felt there was something condescending in the boy’s tone.  Despite his uneasiness, Harry waited for the boy to return.  He didn’t want to be rude.  The boy had been really nice after all, and he had bought Harry drinks all night and he had stopped what he was doing when Harry asked.  Maybe the boy had just misinterpreted the situation and maybe Harry had unknowingly led him on without realizing.

When the boy returned, with two drinks and a smile, Harry felt his misgivings slip away.  The boy was really nice and good looking and he had done nothing all night but try to make Harry feel good.  Harry took his Shirley temple from the boy’s hand, shivering when their hands brushed each other’s.  He was just about to take a sip when suddenly there was a girl standing over them.  She was beautiful - with giant blue eyes and platinum hair to her waist, perfect makeup and a fitted black dress and thigh-high boots.  She looked around Harry’s age, although he couldn’t be sure because the makeup made her look older.

“Hey,” she grinned at Harry like they were old friends.  “We’re gonna leave, are you ready to go?”

“Uh,” Harry had never seen the girl before, but she was acting like they’d come together.

“Sorry, are you my brother’s...?”   _Girlfriend_ wasn’t the right word for his older brother’s ever-changing retinue of lady friends.  But _newest fuck buddy_ seemed a bit impersonal and a tad rude.

The girl looked relieved to be offered a way in.  “Yeah, I’m your brother’s friend.  He’s waiting for you.”

The boy latched onto Harry’s wrist possessively.  “We’re not ready to leave yet.  I’ll make sure Harry gets home okay.”

“Harry,” the girl repeated his name.  “Your brother’s worried ‘cause you’re both past your curfew.”  Harry knew that was a lie - he did have a curfew - but his mum was away on business and no one was waiting for them at home.  But there was an urgency in the girl’s eyes that he couldn’t ignore. Add that to the crawling feeling from earlier and -

Harry turned to the boy.  “Sorry, mate.  She’s right.  Thanks for the drinks.  I had a really nice time.”

“Oh come on, the night is young.”

“Harry really has to go,” the girl emphasized, reaching for Harry’s hand.

The boy stood up, putting his full height between Harry and the girl.  “He’ll go when he’s ready to go.  You’re not his mum.”

“Come on, Harry,” the girl reached for his hand again.  The boy pushed the girl and she stumbled.  Harry jumped to catch her and knocked his shoulder into a bartender behind him, who proceeded to tip an entire pitcher of beer over his head.  Harry blinked the wetness out of his eyelashes, gasping at how cold it was.  His shirt was soaked through and he could already feel the stickiness as it started to dry on his face and hair.

“Sorry,” the bartender said, though he didn’t look or sound very sorry.  He was the same bartender from earlier who’d treated Harry like he was bubble-gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked the girl.

“Whatever,” the boy rolled his eyes.  “Your cock is pretty small anyway.” Harry winced as the boy stalked off.

“I’m okay.  Are you okay?  I saw that guy put something in your drink at the bar,” the girl said, lowering her voice.

“Oh my God.”  Harry abruptly started shaking, aware of how close a call it had been.

“I’m Lottie.  Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”  She took his elbow and guided him through the crowd toward the loo.

“I’m such an idiot,” Harry mumbled to himself, eyes filling with tears.

“No, you’re not.  That guy was.  I’m just glad you’re okay.”  Harry wasn’t sure he _was_ okay - at least not yet.  He knew he was lucky - lucky that he hadn’t drank that drink, lucky that Lottie had intervened - but right now, he felt very wet and very mortified.

“Can you wait in there a sec?  I’m going to get my brother since I can't go in the boy's loo.”

Harry obediently went in the boy’s loo and closed himself in a toilet stall, sitting down on the lid.  He was shaking hard and tears were slipping down his face, hot and fast, cutting tracks through the sticky beer drying on his skin.  He realized trusting strangers had gotten him into the current mess he was in, but Lottie seemed nice enough and her brother -

A knock on the door jolted him.  “Hey mate, you okay?  I’m Lottie’s brother, Louis.”

Harry unlatched the door and his mouth nearly fell open at the sight before him.  The boy in front of him was diminutive, but curvy in all the right places and dressed in a pair of neon pink hot pants that kept exactly nothing from the imagination and a skimpy white vest with the name of the bar “Via” written on the front in rainbow bubble letters.  And he was inexplicably wearing roller-skates with rainbow laces and a pair of feathery angel wings.  Harry didn’t know where to keep his eyes - on the smattering of glitter on the boy’s lightly haired chest, the sumptuous collar bones with tattoos in curling script, the very-well presented crotch, the boy’s furred, muscled thighs or his gorgeous bubble bum.  In the end, Harry decided the safest route was his face, but then looked at the boy’s face and regretted everything.  Giant blue eyes with eyelashes to rival his sisters, sharp cheekbones, messy fringe, a slightly parted mouth.

“Sorry, it’s my work get-up,” Louis apologized.  “I don’t dress like this all the time, I swear.”  He knelt down in front of Harry, making himself smaller.  “You okay?”

Harry sniffled, sucking in his snot and swiping at his face. “I’m sorry, I-  I’m not usually so-”

Louis handed him a wadded up handful of loo roll and Harry blew his nose.  “It’s okay.  Lottie told me what happened.  My mate, Daniel’s, a bouncer here.  Believe me, that guy will never step foot in here again.  I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

Harry hiccuped.  “It’s my fault.  I’m too trusting.  I was an idiot to think someone could actually like me.”

Louis’ face softened.  “Oh, come now, love.  Anyone would be an idiot _not_ to like you.  And you didn’t do anything to deserve assault, okay?  Did he hurt you?”

Harry shook his head, but the memory of the boy’s fingers curling around his shaft sprung to mind, unwanted, and he shivered.   _He was lucky.  It could have been worse.  He was lucky_ , he kept reminding himself, though in that moment, he didn’t feel lucky.  “I’m sorry I’m such a mess.” 

“Stop apologizing.  It’s completely understandable to be upset.  I brought you some dry clothes to change into.  I’m a shot boy here on Saturdays, so I keep spare clothes in my locker so I don’t have to walk home in this,” he gestured at his outfit.

“You should wear that always,” Harry blurted out before he could stop himself.

Louis snorted.  “Thanks.  But the shorts do give you a bit of a wedgie by the end of the night”

“Thank you,” Harry sniffed and Louis gave him a winning grin that made his blue eyes sparkle and the skin around them crinkle endearingly.

“Let’s get you sorted.”

 

**_Soundtrack: Flashlight (Sweet Life Mix) – Hailee Steinfeld_ **

_I got all I need when I got you and I. I look around me, and see a sweet life. I'm stuck in the dark but you're my flashlight. You're getting me, getting me, through the night. Kick-start my heart when you shine it in my eyes. Can't lie, it's a sweet life.  Stuck in the dark, but you're my flashlight. You're getting me, getting me, through the night._

###  **[AFTER]**

Louis was falling asleep with a book on his chest when he felt his glasses being carefully lifted from his face.  “Zayn—” he mumbled sleepily.

“It’s me,” a soft familiar voice said.

“Harry.”  Louis set his book aside and sat up, suddenly alert.  His reading glasses were neatly perched on his bedside table, balanced carefully atop a stack of books.   _Harry, the most thoughtful ghost ever_.

“Why do you always disappear?”  Louis’ chest ached at the thought of Harry leaving again, of lying awake all night with that terrible nameless yearning in his chest.

There was a moment of silence in which Louis thought Harry has already gone, but then he said, very slowly.  “It takes a lot of effort for me to make contact.  I get tired.”

“Oh.”  It never occurred to Louis that something so small as picking up a pencil or flicking on a light switch would be taxing to someone without a body, but it made a kind of sense.  “Can I…is there a way for me to…to help?”

It took longer for Harry to get another sentence out and Louis was afraid he’d up and vanished again.  “There is a way,” Harry said, a bit timidly.  “But I need your permission.”

“What is it?  Tell me.   _Anything_.  I’ll do it,” Louis said, not even caring how overeager he sounded.  The idea of having a two-sided conversation with Harry without him disappearing in the middle of it was too much to bear.

“Well, it helps if we touch.  Like, if we hold hands.”  Louis couldn’t see Harry, but he swore he could detect a note of embarrassment in the other boy’s voice.

Louis ignored it and held out both hands, palms up, vibrating with excitement like a little kid on Christmas morning.  “Okay.  Do it.”

“Bossy,” Harry said in a faint, teasing voice.  For a few seconds there was nothing, and then Louis jerked back in surprise when he felt Harry’s hands finally touch his – he’d been bracing himself for a shock of freezing cold – but Harry’s hands were warm and soft, fingers still rounded with baby fat.

“You’re _warm_ ,” Louis blinked in surprise and then, as Harry slowly materialized out of thin air and Louis saw him for the first time, he added:  “And you’re beautiful.”

It was the first time Louis saw a ghost blush.  He was only being honest.  Harry _was_ beautiful – with a head full of lush, dark curls and luminous green eyes and a full pinked mouth.  Louis had seen a lot of beautiful boys – but none quite like Harry – there was just a pure sunshine energy radiating off of him that drew Louis in like a moth to a light.  How was it that Harry seemed so much more _alive_ than all the living boys Louis had met?

Harry wasn’t _entirely_ there – he was a bit foggy – more like a hologram or a suggestion of a person than an actual person, but his hands felt solid and real in Louis’.  There was something familiar about him - but Louis suspected it was because he’d spent so long talking to Harry before he saw him - of course he’d seem familiar.

“Thanks.  People always think ghosts are cold,” Harry said conversationally.  “But it’s like – you know when you sit in a seat after someone else has been in it?  That warmth they leave behind?  That’s sort of what I am.  The lingering, left-over warmth of a person.” 

It was the most Louis had ever heard Harry speak and he felt like laughing for no reason at all, like he’d just swallowed a huge sip of bright, bubbly champagne and it had all gone to his head.

“You do talk some shit,” Louis grinned, in fond exasperation.

“Heyyyy,” Harry drawled slowly, but he didn’t look too offended.  He kept sneaking quick glances down at their joined hands like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“You’re so _young_ ,” was Louis’ next observation.  He was secretly glad Harry wasn’t a little boy or an old man, but he was sad too – for the same reasons – for the life Harry would never get to live.

“Sixteen.  Well, sixteen for the last three years,” Harry added with a dimpled grin.  There was a touch of sadness in his green eyes, even as he smiled, and it made Louis’ heart sink.

 _He’ll never be older than sixteen_ , Louis thought, and the reality hit him a physical thing – like a punch to the sternum that left him winded and fighting back stunned tears.  Harry would never grow old and Louis would.  Even as they sat there, Louis was aging, and Harry was staying the same.  He would always be the same.  It was so unfair.

But right then, Harry was looking at him, bright-eyed and expectant, and it was hard to remain sad.  Louis gave him a soft, vulnerable smile, the kind he reserved for babies and dogs and his little sisters.  Harry bit down on his lip and glanced away, curls shading his eyes as he bowed his head.  He was so sweet and shy and lovely and unexpected.  And… _dead_ , Louis had to keep reminding himself.

Louis thought of the conversation he’d had with his mum after he’d broken it off with Greg and spent a month moping around his flat in sweatpants, with a bad case of bedhead.  “You’re never going to meet someone hanging out in your bedroom,” she’d said.  And thinking of her words now made Louis want to unleash giddy, nervous laughter.   _Shows you_ , he thought, oddly satisfied.

“Was this your room?” Louis ventured.  He wondered how Harry felt about seeing all of Louis’ stuff in it – wondered how it had been decorated before, wondered about it all being packed away by movers or grieving family members.  And _Harry_ , unknowingly left behind.

“Yeah.  This is my bedroom.”  The present tense jolted Louis a bit – of course Harry would think of it as _his_ room – he’d never really left it after all.  Which made Louis think of his death.  Did Harry die in this room?  And _how_?  Was it a suicide or an illness or an accident?  What was it that had yanked this beautiful, seemingly healthy sixteen-year-old straight out of life forever?

Louis found himself stroking his thumb over the back of Harry’s hand unconsciously.  “Can you leave?”

Harry shook his head, curls bouncing.  Louis wanted to grab them, crush them like a handful of rose petals and inhale their scent.  He wondered what Harry’s hair smelled like – if ghosts even had a smell.  The urge to lean forward and bury his nose into the crown of Harry’s head was nearly irresistible.  “No.  Every time I try to leave, I just end up here again.”

“Who did you live here with?” Louis asked.

Harry’s expression fell and he laid his head down on Louis’ pillow as if the question exhausted him.  His head didn’t even make a dent in the cotton pillowcase.  That, more than anything, made Louis want to cry – how lightly Harry was held there, just by the tips of their tangled fingers – and how quickly he could slip away again.  “I don’t like to talk about it,” Harry said softly, nostrils flaring in distress.

Louis laid his head down so he was facing Harry.  They were close enough that if Harry could breathe, Louis would have felt it on his face.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”  Harry nuzzled his face into Louis’ chest unexpectedly.  Louis’ body tensed for a moment before he relaxed into it.  But it was just like holding any person, except _less_ somehow.  Louis’ arms were starting to ache from the position he was lying in on his side, but he didn’t dare let go of Harry’s hands, would gladly endure any ache if it meant keeping him there.

“Are you always here?” Louis asked curiously.

“Not always.  Sometimes I go... _away_ ,” Harry replied cryptically.

“Where do you go?”

“I don’t know exactly.  Or, I don’t remember…Sometimes I’m here and sometimes I’m just – _not_.”

“Are you uh – are you here when I’m doing naked stuff?” Louis stammered nervously.  In his mind, he was quickly flipping through the shameful catalogue of all the wanks he’d had since he moved in.

Harry let out a giant whooping laugh.  One of his hands slipped from Louis’ to clap over his mouth and he flickered in and out, like a dying halogen bulb.  Louis grabbed his hand again, holding it firmly.  Harry’s whole body quaked with silent laughter as he tried to calm down enough to speak.  “No, I – I would never intrude on your privacy like that,” he finally managed to choke out, cheeks a pleasing shade of pink.

Louis blushed, not sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

Harry yawned and closed his eyes.  Louis held his hands a little tighter, trying to hold onto the moment.  Harry looked even younger in repose, his long lashes throwing shadows on cheeks still padded with baby fat. Louis realized he would very much like to kiss Harry and simultaneously, that he never would.

“Will you tell me about your life?  Your family and where you grew up?” Harry asked, sounding like a little boy asking for a bedtime story.

“It’s nothing exciting, but…” Louis paused, realizing that exciting was relative when you’d been a ghost for three years and your main source of excitement was pushing pencils off other people’s desks.

So Louis talked.  He talked about growing up in a small, cramped house with a single mum and his (then) four sisters, struggling to make ends meet.  He talked about never having anything of his own.  He talked about mowing neighbors’ lawns to help pay the household bills and being embarrassed by his second-hand clothes.  He talked about wearing too-tight football trainers that he suffered in silence because they couldn’t afford new ones, crying in pain and relief every evening in the locker room when he peeled his blood-soaked socks off.

He talked about going to bed hungry some nights so the girls could eat.  He talked about a never-ending stream of deadbeat stepdads and boyfriends, who left his mum with black eyes or a broken heart that it somehow always fell to Louis to fix.  Louis told Harry about the one he’d never told _anyone_ about except Zayn – who’d basically pulled it out of him when he’d noticed Louis was barely eating and seemed exhausted all the time – the boyfriend who’d made drunken, fumbling passes at Louis when he was only twelve.

He told Harry about falling asleep with his door locked and his heart beating out of his chest like a frightened rabbit’s, listening for the sound of the man’s footsteps on the landing.  How nothing ever happened but some inappropriate fondling over his clothes and squeezing of his bum, but how he’d felt like it was his fault somehow – for being what he was – that he’d invited the attention somehow.  That he’d given off some sort of secret signal that he wanted it because he wanted boys, in a way he shouldn’t.

He talked about his high school girlfriends – Bethany and Hannah – and how he could never love them in the right way, in the way that he _should_ .  And how he always felt like a liar and a sham.  And how, after footie practice, he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the other players’ bodies in the showers and how he felt so wrong and guilty and sick for the way his body betrayed him then.                                                                                   

Louis told him the good stuff too – growing up in the garden paddling pool in diapers with Zayn.  Getting into mischief together.  Their first fumbling attempts at intimacy between sweat tangled sheets in Louis’ twin-sized bed.  Later, the relief they felt when they realized they were better off friends and their brief experimentation hadn’t ruined their friendship.  He told Harry about his special relationship with his mum and how soft he was for his sisters and brother.  He told him about playing footie, about pushing himself through long hours of training and pain and exhaustion, about finally making it to the varsity team, and then to Captain.

Harry’s green eyes watched Louis quietly as he spoke, his expression thoughtful.

Louis quickly discovered that it didn’t matter if they were holding hands – so long as his hands were somewhere on Harry’s body, anchoring him.  He let one hand rest on Harry’s hip and indulged himself by letting the other scratch through the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck.  Harry practically purred at that, eyelashes fluttering and mouth going lax at the sensation.  Touching Harry felt a bit like trying to capture smoke or fog in his hand, but Harry seemed to appreciate it nonetheless, murmuring contentedly as he let his eyes droop closed.

It was intangible and frustratingly inadequate, but even then, Louis thought, _I could fall for him_ .   _I could fall for him and it would be so easy_ , like sinking into a warm bath, like coming home after a long time away.

When the words started to dry up on Louis’ tongue and Harry’s eyelids were taking longer and longer blinks, Louis yawned into the sleeve of his jumper.  He was scared to fall asleep, scared to let go of Harry for even a second.  “Will you be here when I wake up?”

“I’ll try,” Harry said softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment or some kudos or come say hi on tumblr? [peachbottomprince](http://peachbottomprince.tumblr.com)
> 
> Are you enjoying the soundtrack format?

**Author's Note:**

> formerly: [everythingwaslarry](http://everythingwaslarry.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, now [peachbottomprince](http://peachbottomprince.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Come shoot me a message on tumblr? Or leave a comment? x
> 
> Please be gentle? This is the first fic I've posted in ages...


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